


It's The "What Ifs" That Kill You

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Good Guy Brock, Good Guy Jack, HYDRA Husbands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-HYDRA Reveal, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-04-14 20:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14144067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: What if Brock hadn't been intercepted by Falcon on his way up to the Council?





	1. Open Your Eyes, I Know You're Dying

  
“Sir, the council’s been breached,” an urgent voice snapped in his ear. Brock paused, glancing away from the three agents he’d just dropped and pressing a hand to his comm. “Repeat dispatch!” he barked.

“Black Widow’s up there.”

Brock bit back the curse that threatened to spit between his teeth in frustration. This whole operation had been royally fucked from the beginning. He'd had barely managed to complete his part of the mission and launch the carriers before that perky blonde bitch had tried to shoot him; had actually shot him, if the warm trickling sensation down his arm was any indication. And now this.

This was what fucking happened when the bureaucrats got involved. It had been a long time since Brock had been told how to run an op and he’d had to grit his teeth and bare it while that fat fuck Pierce divided up his teams, split up long-time partners, and pulled Jack onto his personal detail. It did make sense. Pierce wanted the best by his side and Jack was the best. It made sense, but it didn’t mean Brock had to like it.

He’d been spitting mad when he got home from that briefing. He slammed the door so hard it cracked the wood along the doorjamb. He strode right into the kitchen where he grabbed a bottle of wine without bothering to look at the label. He’d downed half of it by the time Jack got home.

“I was saving that,” he commented mildly while grabbing a beer from the fridge for himself. “But today’s a special occasion,” Brock spat nastily, raising his glass in a sarcastic toast. “Cheers to us being split up on separate details for the mission to end the fucking world!”

Jack just rolled his eyes, long used to Brock’s overly melodramatic tendencies. “We’ve worked separate ops before,” he said, cracking the cap off the beer on the corner of the counter with a snap. “Not like this,” Brock said, white-knuckling his tumbler. It was a good thing he’d been too impatient to grab an actual wine glass. The delicate cup would have long ago shattered under his grip.

“This is big,” he said softly, breaking their unspoken rule to not bring work home with them. Jack just smirked. "That's what she said." Brock huffed in frustration. “Shut up, I'm being serious." He swallowed thickly, glancing down at his boots. "This is like a shit ton of people are gonna die big, like end of the fucking world big." Jack sighed as he closed the short distance between them. “You said that already,” he murmured, plucking the wine from Brock’s hand before settling his own on the shorter man’s hips. “Stop treating this like a fucking joke, it's not funny," Brock snapped, punching a hand into Jack's kidney non too gently. The man didn't even flinch, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"You're really worried," he murmured, sliding a thumb under Brock's shirt to brush across his hipbone. "I just have a bad feeling,” Brock said, embarrassed by how weak his voice sounded even to his own ears. “You always say that,” Jack teased, crows feet crinkling around the corners of his eyes. It struck Brock, low and deep in the gut, seeing those little signs of age in the other man’s face. He’d know Jack for over two decades now. He’d seen the man in every state you could possibly see another human being in.

He’d seen him happy and laughing so hard that he’d snorted tequila out of his nose; so broken on the inside yet refusing to make a sound even as tears poured down his cheeks; so drunk be could barely hold a conversation or keep his hands to himself; in so much pain that his breath came hissing through clenched teeth as Brock and the team did their best to keep him alive; so gentle and tender as he broke Brock down, pulling him apart with breathless words and whispering touches and then holding him together afterwards.

"We'll be fine," Jack promised, pressing a quick kiss to Brock's forehead which at any other time would have earned him a slap across the face or a punch to the gut. "We always are," he added, sliding his hands up and around the shorter man's back. “We’re too old for this shit,” Brock grumbled as he begrudgingly allowed Jack to pull him into his arms.

It had also been a long time since he hadn’t had the hulking brute of a man to watch his back and vice versa. Sure, they’d had their fair share of separate missions but since joining STRIKE, Brock could count on one hand the number of times they’d not worked together. It had felt wrong from the moment Brock had signalled Jack to split off and head for the council chamber, continuing on with two guys from Charlie Team that he’d never worked with in the field.

“Headed up,” Brock replied as he changed direction and ducked into the stairwell. He wound up and up, finally approaching a set of double doors that he knew would lead to a bank of offices. “I’m on forty-one,” he relayed to dispatch. “Headed for the southwest stairwell.”

He rushed through the open floor plan office space, keeping a sharp eye out, but encountered no resistance. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the burning in his thighs and the deep ache that had settled into his shoulder. He refused to focus on the nagging part of his imagination that was conjuring up all sorts of horrible scenarios of what he might find. He just focused on getting there.

Brock froze as he heard a door click open a floor above him. He adjusted his stance as he raised his gun but the two pairs of footsteps wound up the stairs, not down. He crept silently forward, but there was no one on the landing and the footsteps were a distant echo already multiple stories above him.

Slipping carefully out into the hallway, Brock took three rights and a left before pausing outside the door of the council chambers. He took a steadying breath and then slipped inside. Another turn revealed the wide open chamber and the bodies that lay scattered about like broken dolls. Pierce lay to his left, blue suite stained with blood from a double tap to the chest. The others were all clad in black tac gear.

His heartbeat tripled as his eyes landed on one particular body, sprawled out on his back near the end of the table, not moving.

He forced himself not to sprint into the room, to bypass everyone and everything to get to Jack. He was a professional and he acted like it, face calm and stoic even as his heart screamed. His boots crunched on the shards of shattered glass as he forced himself to crouch beside Pierce’s body and feel for a pulse, even as that glassy stare told him the man was dead. No loss there. Good riddance even, at least as far as Brock was concerned. The politician had always had a slimy way about him that made Brock’s skin prickle.

Brock stepped around Pierce, pausing briefly by another downed agent. No pulse. Brock could see the little metallic disks latched onto the man’s face, letting him know that Romanoff had indeed been here and was now gone. Steeling himself, he crossed the room and took a knee beside Jack’s body. Blood trickled down the man’s face from a broken nose and a bruised welt in the centre of his forehead.

Shaky fingers slipped across Jack’s throat and under his chin and he couldn't help the sharp gasp that crashed from his lungs as he felt the man’s pulse thrum under his touch.

“Hey, Rollins,” he whispered harshly as he gave the man a quick once over for other injuries. “Come on. Up and at ‘em, big guy. No time for sleepin’.” Jack gave no response, not even a flinch as Brock slapped him sharply across the face. “Jack,” he hissed, giving the man another shake but the younger agent was dead to the world.

“Fuck,” Brock spat as he grabbed the front of Jack’s tac vest and yanked, ignoring the protests from his injured arm. With a great deal of cursing, he finally maneuvered the man into an over the shoulders fireman style carry, hooking an arm under one leg and reaching across to grasp Jack’s wrist. The other hand snatched up his sidearm and with a grunt, he got to his feet. “Fuck, you’re heavy,” he grumbled as he headed back out to the stairwell. “What have you been eatin’, fuckin’ cement?”

By the time he’d gotten them down eight levels, his back was drenched with sweat and his shoulder was screaming. Another ten levels and his knees and back were aching and he felt like he was back in bootcamp. “I’m too old for this shit,” he grumbled as he wiped sweat from his eyes with his free arm. Another six levels before he heard a soft clicking sound. He waited, back pressed against the wall to help steady himself, but nothing else happened.

It wasn’t until they’d descended another four levels when Brock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. That was all the warning he had before something solid connected with the back of his knee. He felt something snap and he cried out as his leg buckled. Jack’s weight threw him off balance and they pitched forward. He tried to save them but couldn’t and they ended up tumbling down the remaining stairs. They landed heavily on the corner landing, tangled together in a mess of limbs.

Brock pushed aside the pain as he wrenched himself free, looking up at his attacker. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Brock couldn’t place him. He swung his Glock up and fired. A heavy boot smacked across his wrist, launching the gun from his hand. The shot went wide, ricocheting off the walls as the gun skittered down the stairs with a clatter. Brock didn’t have time to block the vicious blow that followed close behind the kick. It cracked across his face, sending him reeling.

His attacked wrapped his arms around to the back of his neck and slammed a knee up towards his face. Brock managed to block it with his forearms, but only just. He brought his arms up and out and with a sharp twist, he’d trapped the other’s arms under his. He whipped his head forward, cracking it across the man’s face. The man’s head snapped back and Brock shoved him roughly away.

He landed hard on the stairs, his head bouncing off the concrete step. Brock stumbled, almost falling as his injured leg refused to support his weight. His attacker was dazed but not for long and came at him again, swinging wildly. Brock blocked, slamming a fist into the other’s kidney. The kid was a good fighter but it was clear that even with the disadvantage, Brock was better. He was faster, hit harder, knew exactly the spots to strike to hit nerves and cause maximum damage.

Finally, he landed a kick square to the man’s chest and knocked him backwards down the stairs. Brock fell to the ground, vision blacking out around the edges with the pain in his shoulder and knee. His fingers scrabbled at Jack’s ankle, for the Sig he knew the man always wore because he’d bought it for him three Christmases ago.

Just as his fingers closed around the grip, the entire building jolted.

Brock was thrown forward, sprawling out across Jack as the building shook and rocked. Dust and cement chips rained down on their heads as the stairs heaved in protest. He met his attacker’s wide eyes. They stared at each other, both breathing heavily. Then Brock whipped the Sig up, took sight, and fired. The bullet cracked into the concrete where the man’s head had been mere seconds before. Brock could hear him clatter down the stairs before the telltale creak of a door slamming shut.

Brock choked and coughed as he inhaled cement dust. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed as cracks raced up the walls, splitting the concrete like butter.

He glanced down at Jack, still very much unresponsive to the danger. Brock flinched as a massive chunk of rebar smashed down into the stairs to their left. They had to move. He latched on hand onto the railing, hauling himself up with a groan as the stairs shook. He grabbed the strap of Jack’s tac vest and pulled the man closer. He bit back a scream, feeling the wound in his shoulder tear and something hot and wet poured down his arm.

Step after agonizing step, he hauled Jack down the stairs with him as the building crumbled apart around them. One floor down and Brock and Jack tumbled through the door out into a hallway. His knee gave out and he fell again, a harsh breath hissing through his teeth. He left Jack for a moment, sprawled out across the carpet as he limped to the nearby window.

He gapped. Two of the helicarriers had collided and were currently crashing into the river, fire and smoke billowing around them. He could just see a corner of the third where it had drilled through the side of the building they were currently in. The floor shook and chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling. The whole fucking thing was crumbling down around their ears.

He looked down. They were about seven stories directly above one of the covered access ways into the lower levels of the building. His eyes latched onto the firehose coiled neatly on the wall next to him and groaned.

Moments later and he was slowly and painfully lowering Jack’s heavy ass out the window he’d just shot out. In truth, it was more like a controlled drop. And of course they were up about seventy feet, whereas the firehose was only fifty. He’d made sure the other side was as secure as possible before whispering a silent prayer and climbing out the window himself. He slide down the hose, managing to stop himself before he slammed into Jack, who was hanging limply with the hose tied under his armpits.

Brock wrapped an arm around the hose like an aerialist and let himself hang. The other hand pulled his knife free from its sheath and went to work. “Sorry darlin’,” he murmured just before the hose snapped and Jack fell the last twenty feet. Brock winced as Jack hit the metal access way with a sickening thump. He sheathed his knife, shimmied himself as far down as he could, and then let go.

 

 

He woke up slowly to smoke and ash raining down from the sky.

He gasped, forcing burning air into sore lungs, and hacked painfully. His ribs protested sharply, letting him know that he had cracked them at the very least. He blinked up to where flames licked out of the broken window they’d come from. Brock supposed this was better than burning to death.

He steeled himself and carefully sat up, pushing back the dizzying darkness that threatened to encroach on his vision as his head throbbed. His whole back was one massive ache but nothing seemed to indicate spinal damage. Then he glanced down and a sob choked itself off in the back of his throat. He stared numbly at the sharp lump protruding from the middle of his thigh, at the blood that had soaked through his pants and was pooling on the ground.

Training took over and even though everything hurt and he just wanted to go back to sleep. He shed his tactical belt with numb fingers before yanking his regular belt free, wincing as he slide the strap under his thigh and looped it through. Setting the timer on his watch, Brock gritted his teeth and pulled.

A choked moan dribbled past his lips as he tied the tourniquet off with shaky hands. That done, he glanced frantically over his shoulder to where Jack lay a few meters away. Biting his lip, Brock managed to drag himself backwards until he was beside the other man.

“Jack,” he croaked, carefully rolling him over.

After checking he was still breathing, Brock untied the hose from under the man’s arms and unzipped his tac vest. His eyes were met with bruises blooming across the man’s abdomen when he lifted Jack’s shirt. “Fuck,” he muttered, letting his hand rest gently on the younger man’s chest. Sirens could be heard in the distance and Brock could just make out flashing lights across the river, moving swiftly closer. It was strangely quiet. Peaceful, even.

Then Jack’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” Brock whispered, leaning closer as the man blinked. “Hey, don’t move. Just lie still.” Jack’s unfocused gaze drifted to is face and he frowned. “Brock?” he croaked, voice hoarse and raspy and that was the first time Brock noticed the bruises that had since blossomed on the man’s throat. “Yeah, I’m right here,” Brock murmured, brushing waxy hair from the man’s face. “I’m right here, darlin’.”

“You never call me that,” Jack muttered, his eyes fluttered. “You’re talking out your ass, as usual,” Brock teased, desperate to keep the man awake. “Hey, hey,” he snapped, tapping his fingers on Jack’s cheek. “No sleeping, yah hear me? I know it hurts, but you gotta stay awake. For me, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Jack hummed deep in his throat. “ ’t doesn’ ‘urt,” he slurred, blinking owlishly as Brock snapped his fingers under his nose. “What was that?” Brock insisted, trying to keep the man talking. “It doesn’t hurt,” Jack said more clearly, glassy eyes searching for Brock’s and holding. “Jus’ feel numb.” A cold panic washed over Brock. “Take my hand,” he asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Jack, take my hand!”

“Are you asking me to dance?” Jack slurred, his lips pulling into a dopey smile. Brock snatched up the big man’s hand, squeezing insistently. “Squeeze my hand, Jackie. Can you do that? Can you squeeze my hand? That’s it. That’s great,” he gasped in relief as he felt Jack’s finger’s twitch and press against his palm, albeit weak as a kitten in relation to his usual iron grip. “What about your feet? Can you wiggle your feet for me, Jack?”

Jack frowned, but did as he was asked and Brock nearly broke down then and there at the slow, jerky movement of the man’s combat boots. “Thank God,” he breathed, squeezing Jack’s hand again. “You’re pretty,” Jack said, staring blearily up at him. “You’re concussed,” Brock sighed. “Naw,” the younger man insisted. “Y’ve alway’s been pretty. E’er since I firs’ saw you I tho’t tha’,” his words petered off into a chuckle, which turned into a wet cough.

“Easy,” Brock murmured as Jack grimaced and spasmed. “Save your strength. There’ll be plenty of time for your sappy bullshit later,” he said, knowing full well they had precious little time left. Jack just hummed, his eyes closing and Brock swallowed thickly. A thrumming noise broke the calm silence and he looked up to see military helicopters roar close overhead, whipping his hair into a frenzy.

Brock closed his eyes.

He'd led them down this path and now could only wonder what might have been different; what would have been different if he'd made different choice. What if he'd never been drafted into HYDRA from SHIELD? What if he'd never recruited Jack? What if he'd tried harder to stop this madness instead of following orders like the good soldier he'd tried for so long to be? What if he'd just grabbed Jack and ran when things got bad? Just ran and never looked back. They could have lived on a beach in Bali until some sleeper agent killed them in their sleep. At least that way, they would have been free, even for a little while.

What if?

What fucking if.

“Brock,” he heard Jack whisper and he looked down to see the man staring worriedly up at him. “Y’r gon’a be here wh’n I wake up, right?”

“Yeah,” Brock breathed around the tight lump in his throat. Jack sounded so childlike, his eyes unguarded and innocent with pupils blown wide. It made Brock's chest hurt. “Yeah, of course darlin’. I ain’t going nowhere,” he lied, brushing his thumb along the side of Jack’s hand. Jack grinned even has his eyelids fluttered. “Good,” he murmured, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Tha’s good.”

Brock’s eyes burned and overflowed as he watched Jack’s blink closed and not reopen. He stared at the rise and fall of his chest, unable to look away in case it stopped rising and falling and he missed it. That wasn’t something he could miss.

He stared as the trucks and cars roared over the bridges, as booted feet landed on the access way, as men yelled and pointed their weapons. He didn’t stop looking even as he was dragged carefully away, Jack’s fingers slipping from his grasp. He continued to stare as medics swarmed over Jack, rolling him over onto a backboard, strapping an oxygen mask over his face. He stared even as his own arms were wrenched behind his back and cuffed, as medics swarmed all over him, poking and prodding.

He didn’t look away as the other man was hoisted up into a waiting helicopter and he continued to stare as it disappeared over the horizon because he knew he’d never see Jack again.

 

 


	2. Close Your Eyes, I'm Here To Stay

“You gotta give me something here, Rumlow,” Coulson said beseechingly, leaning forward across the little metal table that Brock was currently cuffed to with heavy duty mag cuffs, the ones that couldn’t be picked with the paperclip currently holding the agent’s folders together.

To say it had been a surprise to see Coulson walk into the interrogation room had been an understatement. Then it made sense. Brock remembered whisperings of a secret covert team, a team who answered to no one but Fury, a team lead by a ghost. It also made sense to bring the agent in for this interrogation. Coulson was the one who recruited Brock to SHIELD in the first place, pulled him from a dark spiral and put him on a better path.

He’d never been very good at sticking to the better path.

They obviously thought guilt would be enough of a motivator to get him to break. Joke was on them, though. Brock carried a hell of a lot heavier guilt than betraying his old handler. He held his hands loosely clasped on the table before him, staring at the small blinking light on the cuffs. He hadn’t said a word since they had pulled him from the wreckage of the Triskelion three months ago. Two of those months had been spent in a revolving door of hospital rooms and rehabilitation sessions. Now his leg was as healed as it would ever be, the brace around his knee keeping the joint from bending too far for the next six weeks. The vacation was over and he knew it. He knew he was making it harder on himself by not talking but he didn’t care. Not anymore.

“You’re only making this harder on yourself,” Coulson was saying, echoing Brock’s own thoughts. “What do you owe them by keeping their secrets?” _Nothing,_ Brock thought. He didn’t owe them a damn thing but that wasn’t why he was holding his tongue.

Then Coulson was beside him, leaning down into his space. He was so close that Brock could feel his breath as he spoke softly into his ear. “If you don’t give me something, I won’t be able to stop them from transferring you,” he said quietly. “I won’t be able to protect you.” Coulson didn’t need to elaborate further. Brock knew the drill. He was a terrorist and a traitor, regardless that his trial was still half a year out. He knew where he would end up, and with who. HYDRA wasn’t dead for all it was crippled and people out there wanted answers. People were angry and hurt and wanted justice. Brock was just an easy target to blame.

Coulson was clearly waiting for an answer but Brock had no problem disappointing him. After a long moment of silence Brock heard him sigh and make his way back around the table. He gathered his file, threw one last look in Brock’s direction, and took himself out. Brock had only a moment, a breath to allow himself to retreat further into himself, before three men in fatigues came in and dragged him out.

 

 

 

 

Jack didn’t remember much of what happened. His last coherent memory was handing a gun to Pierce, jaw set and hands clasped stiffly before him. After that, everything was fuzzy. He vaguely remembered a low voice, rough and soothing. A gentle tapping touch against his cheek.

Someone asking him to dance.

It was all flashes after that; pain, disorientation, white walls and bright lights. When he woke up coherent and alert for the first time, he was told that he had been in hospital for three weeks recovering from surgery. They told him about the massive internal haemorrhage, the broken ribs, the cracked pelvis, sternum, and skull. His voice, when he tried to speak, came out raspy and broken so they told him he’d damaged his vocal cords. They told him he needed rest and recovery. They told him he was lucky to be alive.

No one came in suits or uniform, brandishing handcuffs and threats. He lay in peace for a month and a half before developing an infection and losing track of time for what he was told later had been eight days. Slowly, he began to recover again. His vocal cords healed and soon it didn’t hurt to talk anymore, even though his voice didn’t lose the raspy quality. It was another five weeks before he was discharged from the hospital.

They let him walk out the front door, a stressed out little agent telling him that someone would be in contact with questions within the next few days. The entire time Jack was on edge, waiting for the black SUVs to roar around the corner but they never did. He could only guess that in the confusion, his affiliation had slipped through the cracks.

Jack didn’t go back to the apartment. He wasn’t that stupid. Jack dumped the cell the agent had given him and went to his old place, the one he’d turned into a safe house after he and Brock moved in together. He lay low for a few weeks before going back home. He snuck in through the fire escape. The place had clearly been meticulously searched, everything categorized and taken away, evidence tagged for future reference. Jack was confident that they’d found nothing that would lead back to him. He and Brock had agreed that absolute secrecy was the best way when their relationship transformed from a casual convenience to something far more serious. That way neither of them could be used against the other, be it SHIELD, HYDRA, or another faction.

The apartment was in Brock’s name. His name was on all the bills even though he and Jack split everything equally. They had no pictures of the two of them outside the typical team photos tacked to the fridge. Nothing had their names on it that shouldn't. Their official marriage documents were buried so deep, no one would ever find them. Their rings bore no identifying markers; simple silver bands they kept hidden in a secret compartment in Brock’s nightstand.

Jack sat on Brock’s side of the bed, breathing in the scent of him. He carefully opened the drawer of the nightstand, finding the usual clutter stripped bare. He reached for the catch that would pop the back open. It fell open easily under his touch and he released a shaky relieved breath as his fingers brushed over something soft and velvety. He pulled out the small box, swallowing thickly as he flipped it open. He slid his ring on with shaky fingers. Brock’s slightly smaller ring he slipped onto the same chain as his dog tags. It hung just over his heart.

Jack knew Brock hadn’t died in the Triskellion. His own broken memories remembered smoke and ash and Brock’s worried eyes looking down at him. He’d also been able to get his hands on hospital records. George Washington University Hospital had admitted one Brock Alexander Rumlow with an acute compound fracture to the left femur, sever tearing to the ACL and MCL to the left knee, as well as concussion, multiple broken ribs, and a gunshot wound to the left shoulder. He had been in hospital for two months. The paper trail continued from there with Brock being released into SHIELD custody.

After that, Brock disappeared and Jack had to keep moving.

He left the country that night, while the chaos was still fresh and no one had yet been able to sort the good guys from the bad. He went to Belgium first, then Poland, then San Marino. He thought about staying in Bucharest but two days in he saw a familiar profile at the little market across from his apartment, hiding under long hair and a baseball cap. Just like an old timey western, Jack decided that the town wasn’t big enough for the both of them.

He moved around for another month before changing his name to Alexandr and settling down in Prague. He cut his hair and grew a beard, bought glasses and got a tattoo. He worked front desk at the same tattoo parlour during the day and taught children piano on weekends. He got a cat and named it Winter, because it’s blue eyes were the same colour as the Asset’s and he thought Brock would think it hilarious. He did everything right but in the end it didn’t matter.

They still found him.

Thankfully it was SHIELD and not HYDRA that found him in the end. He’d heard the horror stories of the house cleaning that HYDRA had begun in an effort to reorganize. Anyone with questionable loyalties, anyone who might have turned after the Fall, was being eliminated. Jack had a feeling he was probably on that list. Everyone knew he was never truly loyal to the cause, but to Brock. As long as Brock was loyal, Jack would be. And now Brock was gone.

They took him on his way home from work, three black SUVs roaring up onto the sidewalk, boxing him in. Jack didn’t even try to fight. He simply allowed himself to be pinned to the cold ground, arms yanked behind his back and cuffed. He was tired of fighting.

They took him to the Raft. Jack wasn’t sure if he should be surprised or not. He hadn’t expected to be considered such a danger to warrant SHIELD’s highest security containment facility but he supposed he was branded a terrorist. A traitor to his country. He was reminded of that by the young SHIELD agent who busted his lip and split his eyebrow during processing. He had spat the words like venom in Jack’s face, eyes brimming with hurt and rage. Jack just took it. Let him be the punching bag for the kid’s anger. He couldn’t find it in himself to blame the boy. Sometimes Jack even blamed himself.

The rings brought of a sever line of questioning, one that they didn’t give up on for months but eventually they did. After that, Jack was bored. He was bored for a long time. He lived out most of his days in a small cell, in an itchy set of scrubs with bio-sensors in the chest that monitored his health, which Jack thought was hilarious. Once a week he was brought in for questioning, but after a while he could tell the agent’s hearts weren't really in it anymore. Jack was just one of a hundred low-level grunts with no real security clearance or knowledge of HYDRA’s inner workings. The interrogations were a formality, a requirement, and both sides of the table knew it.

Time passed without Jack paying much attention. He kept himself active, or as active as he could in such a small space. His hair grew back and he decided to keep it long. With no more access to hair products, it took on a tousled and messy look, constantly being combed back with restless fingers. He shaved his beard, a small part of his brain nagging him that Brock would have hated it.

Jack was being led back from one of his bullshit interrogations when he did a full double take of a familiar looking blonde soldier in black fatigues stepping out of one of the control rooms.

“Holy shit,” one of his guards breathed as they passed the door of the control room. It looked like a bomb went off inside. Bodies were strewn about, monitors hissing static and hanging crookedly. “Call it it,” the second soldier said before Jack shoulder checked him into the wall. He lashed up with his boot, catching the first man off guard and squarely on the jaw. He dropped to the floor out cold.

“Fucker,” the other man hissed, snapping out his bam stick with a thwack, electricity cracking between the prongs at the end. The fight was over before it even began. His guards had been getting sloppy of late, used to Jack being docile and easy to handle. Never causing a fuss. They made the mistake of cuffing his hands in front as opposed to behind his back.

He dragged the two guards into the command centre, closing the door just to as a patrol strolled casually by, unaware of what was happening. He slipped the cuffs quickly, moving to the only computer terminal that seemed undamaged. Lucky for him, the previous owner was still logged on. His chances of a successful escape diminished with every second he wasted but he honestly didn’t care. He needed to know. A quick search brought up Brock’s file. He froze as his eyes scanned over the file. Four words stood out:

**STATUS: INCARCERATED - THE RAFT**

He was moving the instant he found the cellblock Brock was being kept in. He stripped off his uniform, dressing himself in a guard's fatigues and pulling the hat low over his eyes. It was mockingly easy to make his way through the Raft. No one gave him a second look.

He slipped into the cellblock and down the hallway until he found the one he was looking for. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes landed on the dark haired man lying on the cot mere feet away, one hand tucked under his head. Brock’s eyes were closed, no indication that he had heard Jack enter. He was thinner than Jack remembered, skin ashy and pale. As Jack stepped closer, he could see new scars scattered across his hands.

“Brock,” Jack whispered, throwing a glance through the bar covered glass to make sure no one was watching them. No reaction, although the man’s breath hitched. “Brock, I know you’re awake!” Jack hissed as he crouched beside the man. Still, Brock didn’t move. Jack was about to dump the man on his ass when he noticed a single tear leak from the corner of the man’s eye and disappear into his hair.

“Hey,” he whispered, bringing up a hand and placing it gently on Brock’s chest. That got a reaction, but not one Jack was expecting. Brock’s eyes snapped open and within the next breath, Jack found himself pinned to the ground with his arm twisted up behind him and a knee between his shoulder blades.

“Brock, you fucker, it’s me!” he growled as pain lanced up through his shoulder. Another inch and his shoulder was going to dislocate. He felt the other man freeze and then the pressure on top of him was gone. Jack grimaced as he rolled over, folding his arm in against his chest. Brock had fallen back and scrambled a few paces back, eyes wide with shock as he stared at him.

“Jack?” he breathed, staring at him like he was trying to decide if he was real or not. “Asshole,” Jack grumbled as he got to his feet. “You almost broke my shoulder.” Brock made no move to get up, just continued to stare wide eyed up at him. “Come on, we gotta move,” he said, grabbing Brock’s shirtfront and yanking him to his feet. He tried not to focus on how easy it was. He snapped a pair of cuffs around that wrist even as Brock twisted around to get a look at him.

“What are you doing?” he said with a shaky breath. “Getting us outta here,” Jack muttered, unnerved by Brock’s broken glass stare. “Here, hold this.” he wrapped the cuff around Brock’s other wrist, moving his fingers to pinch it closed to give the illusion that they were locked. He led Brock out the door, checking that the coast was clear before locking the cell behind him and pulling the hood he had swiped from a supply closet earlier. He wasn’t expecting Brock to physically recoil as he moved to put it over his head.

“ _No fucking way_ ,” Brock hissed with so much venom in his voice and heat in his eyes that Jack actually took a half step back. He hadn’t seen Brock that scared in a long time. He forced down the cold thrum that wrapped around his chest like a vice and threatened to choke him. They didn’t have time for this. “This is the only—hey, look at me!” Jack snapped as Brock tried to back away, nostrils flaring. He caught and held Brock’s gaze, speaking low and steady like he used to with rookies in the field who were having meltdowns. “This is the only way I can get you off the Raft. Everyone knows your face.”

He had no idea what had happened to Brock to make him react this way but he couldn’t focus on that right now. “I’ll be right there,” he said, softening his voice. “I got your back.” Brock’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Just shut up and get it over with,” he growled, refusing to look Jack in the eye. “Okay,” Jack said soothingly as he slipped the hood up and over Brock’s head. He made sure not to let go of the man, sliding a hand down his back before gripping his bicep.

They made there way through the Raft up towards the helipads. Jack could feel Brock’s tension radiating from his body. The man was practically trembling under his hand. Everything was going smoothly until they reached the door that would lead them up to the helipad. “Hey!” a harsh voice snapped from behind them. Jack felt the hitch in Brock’s step but didn’t let them falter and continued to march towards the exit.

“Hey, you!” the voice said again, this time accompanied with echoing footsteps. Jack turned on his heel to see three soldiers marched towards them. “Where do you think you’re going?” the one in the front said crisply. “Prisoner transfer,” Jack said, eyes catching the man’s rank insignia just in time to add a “Sir,” to the end of his answer. The man’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t informed,” he said as the two men behind his shifted warily. “On whose orders?”

“Major Westfield,” Jack lied smoothly, throwing a name out and hoping the man hadn’t died in the Uprising. He could feel Brock shift his stance beside him. “The orders came through an hour ago. The ink was barely dry before the man was phoning in asking for an update.” That got a chuckle from the other two men. Major Westfield had a bit of a reputation and Jack was just thankful the man was apparently still alive. The man in charge didn’t seem convinced. “Let me see your transfer papers,” he said, holding out a hand.

Just then, as if Lady Luck herself was looking down on them, alarms blared shrilly and red lights flashed. The men looked around wildly. “Get him back to his cell!” the man in charge snapped as he charged back down the hallway with the other two. “Yessir,” Jack called out as he pushed out the door and pulled Brock onto the helipad. They found the deck mostly empty and any crew they ran into seemed to have better things to do. He shoved Brock into the nearest helicopter and went about unclipping and prepping for flight.

The second they were in the air Brock ripped the hood off and un-cuffed his wrist with shaking fingers. He threw both down at his feet and promptly stared out the window, clearly working on keeping his breathing even. Jack swallowed thickly, reading the tension that hadn’t eased in the man’s shoulders and the way his fingers clenched tight against his leg like an open book. 

He said nothing the entire flight. They had just enough fuel to make it to Colorado, where they ditched it in some farmer’s field and stole an old pickup truck. Jack’s priority was to get them out of the States so he called up an old favour and got them on a back channel cargo flight to Cape Town. From there they took a boat up the coast then drove, changing cars until they finally settled in a small apartment in Prienai, a riverside city in Lithuania with a population just under ten thousand. They were lucky enough to find an elderly couple who were retiring to a life living on cruise ships and were wanting to sell everything.

The entire trip, Jack never saw Brock sleep.

The man tried to cover up the cracks with bravado, with his snarky humour but it fell flat. The fact that he wouldn't look Jack in the eye or let Jack touch him was a huge red flag. Jack tried to get Brock to talk about what happened after the Fall but he only got the big picture, the broad strokes. Brock explained how he’d found him in the council room, the fight in the stairwell, getting them out of the building. From there, Brock was taken to hospital, then bounced about SHIELD custody before ending up on the Raft. Jack couldn’t help but feel the man was leaving something important out. By the time they made it to Prienai, Brock looked absolutely wrecked. Deep shadows were permanently bruised under his eyes. He had to be reminded to eat and drink water and Jack swore Brock had lost more weight just on the trip over.

It all came to a head the first night in the apartment when Brock said he’d sleep on the couch. “You’re not sleeping on the couch, don’t be stupid,” Jack snorted, not noticing the way Brock seemed to retreat into himself at the words. Brock didn’t answer, just continued pulling out blankets and spare pillows from the hall closet. “Brock, just stop,” he sighed, reaching out to catch him by the arm.

Brock whipped around and a breath later Jack’s back connected solidly with the wall from the force of the shove. “The fuck was that?” he growled, bouncing back within the next breath. Brock said nothing as he snatched up the abandoned blankets from the floor. “Brock,” Jack tried but didn't get far. “Just fuck off!” Brock shouted, hurling the bedding onto the couch before whirling on him, eyes hot and angry. “Give me some fucking space, for Christ’s sake! Fucking mother hen, always hovering. Just back the fuck off!”

The silence that followed seemed louder than the voices. Jack stared down at Brock, standing defiantly with trembling hands clenched into fists. “Okay,” Jack said softly, swallowing thickly. “If you need anything, you know where to find me,” he added as he brushed past Brock and stalked into the bedroom. It took all his self-control not to slam the door behind him but that would be childish and there was only room for one child in this relationship. Brock had the monopoly on that.

Immediately, Jack regretted storming out. Brock had obviously been through something that had messed him up bad. He sighed, cursing himself quietly under his breath before stepping back out into the living room. He found Brock sitting on the couch, face buried in his hands. He was so still. Jack made sure to make his footsteps audible as he crossed the room and slowly sat on the couch next to his husband. “Fuck off, Jack,” Brock said, words muffled into his hands. The words were harsh but there was no venom behind them. He just sounded tired so Jack didn’t take them to heart.

He didn’t move to touch Brock and he didn’t feel the need to break the silence that had settled over the apartment. Slowly, and only a little, Jack felt a bit of the tension leach out of Brock’s shoulders. Finally, he raised his head up, hands cupped around his chin instead of hiding his whole face. “I was serious about sleeping on the couch,” he said finally.

“And I was serious about if you need anything, you know where to find me,” Jack replied softly even as his heart hurt at Brock’s words. The older man just nodded, still staring out across the room. Jack reached up, slowly, giving Brock time to move away. When he didn’t, Jack settled his hand gently on the back of the other man’s neck. He squeezed gently before leaning across and pressing his lips to Brock’s temple. Brock flinched slightly but didn't pull away. He didn't move at all, just kept staring straight ahead. 

Jack didn’t linger, feeling no change in the tension radiating from Brock in waves. He paused in the doorway, stopped by two quietly whispered words from behind him. “Thanks Jackie.” The words were so soft, so barely there that he had a feeling he hadn’t been meant to hear them.

 

  
It was 2AM and Jack couldn’t sleep. He’d gotten a couple of hours but the bed felt too comfortable after months of sleeping on hard ground. It felt too empty, the massive king size bed sprawling across most of the room. After trying for an hour to fall back asleep, Jack gave up with a sigh. He tip toed out of the bedroom, not wanting to disturb Brock. He grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, taking a moment to splash some water quietly on his face.

He paused when he heard a soft rustling. Shit, he’d woken Brock. The man looked like he’d barely slept in months. He deserved a good nights sleep. Jack paused in the doorway of the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief that Brock was still fast asleep. Then he noticed how stiff Brock was, how his hands were clenched in the blanket. A whimper slipped past clenched teeth as he began to tremble and twitch.

“Brock,” Jack said softly, rounding the couch and pausing by the other man’s hip. “Brock,” he tried again but the man was beyond hearing. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, his jaw muscles twitching. Jack crouched, not wanting Brock to wake up with someone looming over him, and laid a hand on his leg.

Immediately Brock surged upright with a gasp, chest heaving and eyes rolling. Jack found himself yanked forward by the hair, the light from the streetlamp glinting off the knife clutched in Brock’s other hand. He held very still as the steel pressed against his throat, even though he’d slipped his hand to clasp around Brock’s. He could easily twist the knife away but didn’t want to escalate things.

They froze, like statues, breathing heavily as Jack waited for Brock to get his bearings. Awareness snapped into Brock’s dark eyes and the hand disappeared from his hair. For the second time that day, Jack found himself being shoved back. The knife disappeared as Brock scrambled away to the far end of the couch. “Christ, Jack,” he gasped, scrubbing a shaky hand over his face. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

“Wasn’t expecting my husband to pull a knife on me,” he replied, moving from the floor to the other end of the couch. Even in the low light Jack could see Brock flinch. “You ready to tell me what happened now?” Brock just shrugged, staring at the carpet like he was trying to memorize the pattern. “Nothing to tell,” he muttered. “Bullshit,” Jack countered, wishing he’d grabbed a shirt for the conversation. It wasn’t one he was expecting to have in nothing but his boxer briefs. “What do you want me to say, Jack?” Brock protested, hair that had grown long for want of a haircut falling across his eyes.

“Anything,” Jack countered, moving closer along the couch but stopping once he saw Brock tense. “Talk about the weather, how you hate the food here, how the man in the cell next to you snored. Anything, just talk to me.” Brock was quiet for so long that Jack thought he wasn’t going to get an answer. He was determined to wait for as long as it needed but as the clock hand passed the twenty minute mark, Jack had a feeling he wasn’t going to. He almost jumped when Brock finally did talk.

"Did you know that hallucinations are a side effect of sleep deprivation?" Brock said into the silence. "On the Raft, I didn't believe it was you. I had gotten used to— I didn't think it was really you. I'm still not convinced this isn't all just some fucked up fever dream or something." 

Jack didn’t know what to say to that. Whatever he thought might come out of Brock’s mouth, it wasn’t that. His silence didn’t seem to bother the other man. “I was in SHIELD custody for a month before they handed me over to a black site,” he revealed softly. Jack bit back a curse, teeth grinding together as he held back his temper. He should have known, or guessed at the very least. Brock’s behaviour since they escaped the Raft should have been clue enough; withdrawn, wary, shying away from touch, from Jack.

“It was all pretty textbook,” Brock sighed. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. For the first month anyways. They had me for five.” Brock trailed off, pulling his knees up into his chest. “Shit,” Jack muttered, running a restless hand through his hair. “Yah,” Brock breathed, swallowing thickly.

“I get nightmares,” he confessed quietly. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I'm sorry,” Jack found himself whispering. Brock’s head reared back, a startled expression on his face. “I couldn't find you. I tried,” Jack confessed, forcing the words past his teeth. “I looked for months but I couldn’t find anything after the transfer to SHIELD. Not with the resources I had, everything was redacted—.” He broke off as he caught himself starting to ramble. “It’s okay,” Brock whispered. “It’s not,” Jack snapped. “I should have—I should have been able to find you.” He sniffed sharply, scrubbing a hand under his nose. Brock looked away, swallowing thickly.

"Aren't we a pair," he mumbled.

Jack took a breath and then got up, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He crouched in front of Brock, slowly reaching up to brush his too-long hair back off his forehead. “Come to bed,” he murmured, tracing Brock’s cheekbone with his thumb. The other man’s eyes sparkled in the low light, threatening to spill. “Okay,” he whispered.

Jack gave Brock space as he settled into his side of the bed. He lay on his side, facing him but made no more to close the distance between them or touch him in any way. It wasn’t long before he felt the bed dip as Brock moved closer. Fingers tentatively brushed his bare chest, tracing the scars where they had removed his spleen and repaired his collapsed lung.

He reached up, tangling his fingers through Brock’s as he brushed his lips across the other man’s knuckles. Slowly, Brock leaned forward until his forehead pressed against Jack’s. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered into the space between them. “I’m right here,” Jack promised back. “I’ll always have your back.”

“Sap,” the man retorted, a sliver of the old Brock shining past the scars. Jack chuckled softly, feeling sleep pulling him back under.

 

 

  
Nights were rough. It was only ever a few hours before a nightmare would tear Brock from sleep. In the beginning they were quiet, Brock waking up half paralyzed for fear of making noise and attracting attention. Then Jack would feel bad that he didn’t wake up to offer comfort and soothing words. As time went on the dreams became more violent, until Jack was starting his day with bruises and bloodied lips more often than not. Then Brock would feel guilty that he’d hurt Jack, hating himself for losing control.

Either outcome would usually lead to an argument which often led to a full blown fight. Words were hurled across the apartment, heated and hurtful. Brock would lash out in misguided self-defence, feeling embarrassed and helpless and Jack would lash back out of frustration, feeling just as helpless. They never came to blows. That was one line neither of them would ever cross. Then one night, after a particularly vicious fight, Brock didn't come home.

Jack sat up all night, fretting himself into an early grave. He’d tried Brock’s phone but it had been switched off. He’d gone to all the regular spots, with no luck. Finally he returned home and sat in the living room until the sun had long since crested the horizon. Finally he heard the latch on the door open and closed his eyes against the burning tears that threatened there. Footsteps grew closer until he felt a light touch on his knee. Jack opened his eyes to find Brock crouched in front of him. He’d gotten a haircut, boasting once again his normal style of short on the sides, longer and spiky on top. He looked tired but his eyes were clearer than they had been in a long time.

“Don’t you ever fucking scare me like that again,” Jack rasped, voice hoarse and tight. Brock’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered but Jack felt like he needed to hammer home the point. “Never again,” he growled, overlapping the man’s apology. “Okay,” Brock soothed, running his hand against the side of Jack’s leg. “Okay.”

Jack surged forward, one hand cupping the back of Brock’s newly shaved head, the other wrapping around his broad shoulders as he pulled him against his chest. He felt Brock’s arms wrap around his waist and hold him tight. They stayed that way for a long time and when they reluctantly pulled away, neither one had a dry eye. Brock scrubbed a hand over his eyes with a harsh sniff while Jack didn’t even bother to try and hide the tears that had streaked down his face.

"Never complimented you on the new ink," Brock said, voice a little watery as he twisted Jack's arm around for a better look. His bicep was adorned with a traditional enough skull and crossbones. It was a symbol of Brock's callsign on covert ops and they both knew it. Delicate vines wrapped around the jaw and climbed up and over the orbits. Flowers bloomed out of one eye socket, between the teeth, out of cracks in the bone above the temple, out from under the jawline.

"It's beautiful," Brock murmured, tracing a vine with a gentle finger. “I can’t lose you,” Jack breathed on impulse. “You won’t,” Brock promised. He reached up a hand and brushed away the moisture that clung to Jack’s cheeks, eyes soft and open like Jack remembered from quiet nights and early mornings. “We’re gonna be okay, right?” Brock asked, a little doubt creeping into his voice. Jack just smiled. "Yeah," he said. He leaned forward, carefully pressing his lips against Brock's for the first time in over two years.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient! Hope this chapter was worth the wait! I love writing these two. Feedback is my fairy dust! xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Golly, it's been a while since I've written these two! I didn't realize how much I missed it! I definitely needed this little distraction from the frustration of one of my longer stories I've been wrestling with for a while. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it and stay tuned for part two, which will be Jack's point of view! Feedback is my fair dust! xx


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